STORY STARTER

Thinking about my parent's toys got me thinking about a story idea. I sketched out the idea below. It's totally fictional, sort of a compilation of vague memories of family stories. What do you think? Be gentle. Remember, this is an undedited incomplete rough draft.

Betty Anne lay quietly in bed thinking about the day stretched out before her. She wiggled her toes under the covers. 5:30: No use getting up now. Mother would just make her get back in bed. She stuck out her nose from under the covers, and, feeling an uncomfortable chill, darted it back under. Too cold to get up and get dressed, anyway. She thought about the scene that was waiting in the living room: the stocking from Santa with the new pencils, the walnuts, and of course, the orange in the toe. Maybe a new book would be in there, too. She would know soon enough, she consoled herself. After their stockings, the family would take turns opening gifts. Her turn to unwrap would be after her mother, but before her brothers. "Ladies first," she could hear her father saying. She imagined the boys' irritated expressions when they were forced to put their gifts back under the tree. She wondered who was more patient, her brothers in waiting to open their gifts, or her father, in training the boys to have good manners. She must try to be patient, too. But the anticipation was killing her. What gift had her parents bought her this year? Betty had dropped hints about the star-shaped silver charm for her bracelet. How could Mother and Dad not have heard her remarking last month to her cousin how much she'd like it, how wonderful it would look next to the two other charms dangling from her wrist. If their gift wasn't the charm, then she had no idea what it would be. She had already started writing a thank you note to Aunt Grace and Uncle Leo for their card with a silver dollar in it. Their gift was the same every year. From ther grandmother she'd get either handkerchiefs or underwear. The boys would give her something they'd made together from scrap wood. Though she'd been very careful when making their gifts, they had not turned out as nicely as mother's potholders. She'd tried to make desk sets for her brothers and her father, but the glue on the decoupaged pen cans had stayed tacky, and she was afraid that the tissue paper she'd wrapped them in would stick. Oh, well. She'd done her best, and after all, "it's the thought that counts." Betty glanced at the clock: 5:50. Right on cue, she heard her mother making noise in the kitchen. "In 10 minutes," Betty thought, "I'll get up and help her. Well, I certainly am in the Christmas Spirit." Most mornings, because she had to bathe and dress for school, Betty was excused from helping prepare breakfast. Mother insisted that the family eat their regular meal together in the dining room before "going anywhere near those stockings or tree." Then, Dad would have Bob read the family the Christmas story. And finally, they would go into the living room and see the tree. She wondered how Mother could get up so early after staying up so late putting up the decorations. Reluctantly pulling back the covers Betty thought, "I guess I'll get up now to help her."